


When I Lose My Gravity

by crawlingupyourskin



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Boys Kissing, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 03:39:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18438266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crawlingupyourskin/pseuds/crawlingupyourskin
Summary: Eliot has a depressive spiral at a party, and decides to steal Quentin's anxiety meds to get high. Quentin has a panic attack.





	When I Lose My Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Something ~ S1. This is mostly just Eliot spiraling, Quentin spiraling, some conflict, and some fluff. 
> 
> Title is a lyric ripped from half·alive - still feel

Eliot was sinking. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling.

Laid back in his favorite loveseat, his legs strewn over the edge, he watched as people filtered in and out of the party, the chatter and the music doing little to muffle the overwhelming sadness, undertones of past regrets, fears, doubts, all flooding his mind. His reality was rapidly becoming more and more slurred as time went on, he was trying his damnedest to numb it before he really started to drown.

He took another long pull from his flask, silently thanking Margo for the refilling charm she gave him as a gift during his first year.  _I wonder if she would have still given it to me, if she knew I’d use it like this._  It wasn’t going to be enough.

Laughter billowed out from the couches behind him, and he brushed away the thought as he turned to face it. He couldn’t care less, but he found his body moving on autopilot, dragging him towards the noise in some deep-rooted curiosity he didn't bother to shake.

Oh, it’s him. Pretty boy, entry exam. Margo though? He doesn’t seem like her type, too nerdy and shy, not nearly enough confidence for what he’s got going for himself. He caught her eye and lifted an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Eliot, honey, this is Quentin. He’s a first-year.” Her body language feigned interest, but her tone voiced the light sarcasm she didn’t care to hide around Eliot.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Eliot surmised, leaning against the shelves and eyeing him up and down for emphasis.

She turned to look at Eliot, smirk teasing the corners of her lips, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Quentin, Quentin, that name sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Isn’t he –“

 _“Yes_ , Margo, he’s the one I was assigned to escort to the entrance exam.” He interrupted, not too keen on her giving him away.

She left her place on the couch, heels clicking on the wooden floor as she sauntered over to Eliot. She smiled, teasing, before she looked back at Quentin. “Mm. He’s not  _that_  cute.” She placed a hand on the small of his back to push him intently towards the newly vacated seat.

Quentin sat there, watching the scene unfold in front of him, clutching his glass between his legs, almost as if he didn’t particularly want to be there, but it’s not like there was anywhere else he’d rather be, either.

Eliot sat himself against Quentin comfortably, pulling one of his legs up to his chest and leaning lightly into Quentin. This could be an interesting distraction. “Bambi, would you be a dear and get us something to drink?”

Margo sighed dramatically, turning on her heel. “If you insist.” She sauntered away in the direction opposite the bar. Quentin didn't seem to notice.

 

“So, Quentin.” He enunciated his name as if he was testing it out for the first time, testing  _him_. “I see you made it through Fogg’s vetting.”

Quentin chuckled, a bit awkward but genuine. “Yeah, well, it took me long enough.” Eliot looked over at him. Quentin’s eyes were still buried in his glass, his loose hair cascading down, just enough to shelter him from his gaze. God, he just  _breathed_  anxiety. 

“Hey, you’re here." He tried to level with him. "I honestly didn’t think you’d make it. No offense - not many people do.”

“Mm. That’s the - I don’t, I don’t really know  _why_  I did. Make it, I mean.” He looked up at him, eyes searching, almost vulnerable. Eliot didn’t have the answers for him. Quentin looked back down. “This all still feels a bit - I don’t know,  _surreal_?”

Eliot couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, breaking the tension. “Oh, trust me, Quentin. That feeling won’t go away anytime soon. Try not to think about it too hard.” They both quieted at that.

Although the silence grew, it wasn’t particularly uncomfortable.

Eliot found himself fidgeting, pulling his flask from his inner pocket and turning it over in his hands. It was old metal, warmed by the close proximity to his skin. He tried to feel the texture of it, the intricate grooves, but his fingertips felt numb. He remembered how much he'd been drinking, no, that was part of it, but this was something else. They were his hands, but  _not_. He suddenly wished he had chosen to sit facing Quentin a bit more. How much time had passed since something was said? He was starting to slip.

He closed his eyes, breathing. That didn’t help. He opened his eyes again.  _I need to leave_. He felt himself start to separate. _Pull yourself together, Waugh._  He set his foot back on the ground, placing his hands on his knees. “Well, this was fun, but I’m going to go check on Bambi.”

He didn’t process that Quentin had responded until he was five paces away, the sound of his voice echoing in his head but the words refusing to be heard.

He planted his feet as he walked, trying to ground himself back in reality, to push away the depressive thoughts that were flooding his mind, the ones telling him to  _just give up_. He started to feel more and more physically present as he walked, but the ideas didn’t go away.

He'd just made the decision to make his way up the stairs and slink back to his room when he saw Margo standing off to the side. She was listening in on a group playing push at the kitchen table, head tilted slightly as she caught up on gossip, lightly clutching a margarita in one hand. His curiosity got the best of him, and he found himself sidling up to her, placing a hand on her arm. “Hey, what was that all about?”

Her eyes were playful. “What? You’ve been sitting alone all night and I thought you could use some fun. He seemed like your type.” She spoke effortlessly, but Eliot could see through her. She was concerned about him, and he didn’t care for that.

Eliot scoffed. "Well, he's not." He realized how obvious his lie was a second too late, the words having already slipped through his lips. This was Margo, after all. His lies never worked on her, even if he tried. 

"Mm." Margo articulated, practically rolling her eyes at Eliot. Her eyes fell back on the poker table, and Eliot took the cue to turn back. 

He made his way back to his room, closing the door behind him by leaning heavily against it. He didn’t bother casting any light, eyes adjusting to the dim streams of moonlight filtering in through the window.

His heart sunk in his chest as he secluded himself with his thoughts.  _Too boring, too fucked in the head to keep a conversation going. Why would you even bother? Who would want you anyways? Useless. Unlovable._ He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

His fingers ghosted over the fabric of his vest as he raised his hand to his inner pocket. He pulled his flask back out, and took another long pull, alcohol bitter against his tongue. He stared into the darkness, too loud, too awake, too  _alive_. Not enough.

A thought flashed in his mind. It wouldn't be difficult, he probably had _something_. He turned the thought over in his head, twisting the flask in his hands. 

You know what? Fuck it.

 

Eliot opened his door and walked intently, quickly threading back through the crowded floor of the physical kids’ cottage. He made his way carefully around the backside of where Quentin sat, still in the same spot, although now he was talking to a blonde girl sitting at the adjacent couch.

He seems much more relaxed now, now that he had finally stopped talking to him, sitting back on the couch with his limbs relaxed and smiles freely shared.

His leather satchel sat unattended to the left.

He made sure he was out of clear view and crouched down. He barely took the time to think as he did it, his movements rhythmic, methodical, almost ingrained in his muscle memory at this point. It wasn’t hard, the kid hadn’t even bothered to put any protective spells over the bag.

 _Ah, here we go._ His fingers circled the small plastic container, the contents rattling softly as he turned it in his hand. “Quentin Coldwater – Take one tablet as needed for anxiety. Alprazolam, 0.5mg”

_This’ll do._

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks Margo had invited – well, more  _dragged_  Quentin into their little circle.

Quentin didn't understand why they'd chosen him, but he went along with it. It became a pattern, Margo would pull him away at the _worst_ of times, but they'd find Eliot, and they'd just  _exist_   together. Drinking, gossiping, but there was something else underneath it all, the quiet smiles, shared laughter, the comfortable silences. They gave him an open invitation to the cottage – even when there wasn't a party. He didn’t get it, but it was nice, just the three of them. 

He thinks his life is over, and then it’s not, and Eliot is there. In fact, he was the only one who  _was_  there. _I bond fast, time is an illusion._  

 

By the time Quentin was placed in the physical kids' cottage, it just felt natural.

 

* * *

 

Quentin was freaking out. 

There wasn't even - it wan't even something that  _mattered_. The thought runs through Quentin's head as he tries to slow his breath, which had rapidly risen to a pace best described as  _hyperventilation_.

 

He'd been hanging out with Eliot in the main part of the cottage that morning, Margo filtering in and out as he watched Eliot working at his mixology, trying new ingredients and combinations, handing them to Quentin to taste-test when he deemed appropriate.

They all tasted good to Quentin, but he tried his best to give accurate feedback. They went back and forth, Eliot teasing him for his inexperience, Quentin teasing him for the fact that he was learning new recipes while  _still in his pajamas._

It wasn't long before Eliot had to leave, rushing out to meet Josh, who he'd enlisted to bring back an ensemble of mix-ins he'd been raving about trying, as well a few bottles of various wines - Eliot had caved and finally uncorked the last bottle for Quentin last night. _Apparently_  he'd had been looking at it rather "longingly."

 

That's how Quentin found himself left alone, curled up on the couch, surrounded by half a dozen of Eliot's creations and a numb feeling spreading through his body.

It didn't have anything to do with him, really, but his  _thoughts_ , his stupid fucking  _brain_  had started feeding him all this bullshit about why he left - that Eliot thought he was just unbearable, that he wasn't coming back, or that his feelings would always be one-sided, and he really was a fool for letting himself believe that he could possibly want anything with him. Logically, he knew it couldn't  _all_  be true, but all of his doubts and feelings of self consciousness were hitting him full force right now, and he really just needed to focus on getting his breathing under control. 

This isn't working. I need to – I need to get my meds, I’m not calming down, this isn’t  _working_.

He puts his feet on the ground, more forcefully then he'd meant, and draws himself to the edge of the couch. He tries to carefully slide his torso down to the floor, but the it's more than he can handle, and the impact is so overwhelming it wrenches a sob from him. His hyperventilation speeds up impossibly quicker, the sound of his own breathing so loud it fills his ears. His mind races.  _I’m so annoying, I’m just bothering him. You don’t even have anything interesting to say._ He cringes, pulling his head to his knees and wrapping his arms around his head.  _Worthless, useless. I’m just wasting his time – a waste of_ space _. Kill myself and make it easier._  His world spins.

He tries to breathe. It doesn’t help much. His breathing slows – no, he’s just holding his breath.  _I can’t even stop my own panic attack, how am I supposed to fix anything?_  He hyperventilates even harder.

He loses track of time, but by the time he notices that Margo is there he thinks he’s been drowning in his self-hatred for something like five minutes.

 _Fuck-fuck-fuck she found me. She’s here, and I’m having a breakdown. I’m having a fucking breakdown and I can’t stop I can’t – now she knows how pathetic and useless and stupid –_  His thoughts spiral.

She said something, he realizes. What? She reaches out and touches his shoulder. He reacts  _violently_ , his whole torso trying to shake away the touch, but he’s curled so tightly in himself already that it doesn’t have much of an effect. The sob that is wracked from his body is involuntary to say the least.

She gets the message anyways, and retracts her hand.

The world around him quiets again, and he numbly surveys himself. His splitting headache, his hot breath still incessantly coming in quick bursts, his eyes squeezed tight. His hands tightly gripping his own hair, hot tears soaking through the fabric of his sleeves. His feet planted on the ground, his elbows against his knees, the way his body leaned so heavily on the edge of the couch. He drowned out his thoughts, the sound of his own wheezing breath with these things. It helped.

“Quentin?” He hated the concern in her voice. “Do you have any meds?”

It took him a long few moments before he was able to loosen his grip, He lifted his head slightly, eyes still screwed shut. He took a shaky deep breath, “in my bag” his voice cracked as he sobbed.  _Waste of time, now I’ve concerned her. I’m so annoying._  He wrenched his body deeper into the cocoon he’d created with his limbs, desperately trying to ground himself.

 

He's mildly aware of her heels clicking as she walks around, the sound of his books rustling as she digs through his bag, the sounds of her worrying about him. He realizes his hair is plastered to his cheeks with his tears. He doesn't do anything about it. Far sooner than he would have liked, Margo's footsteps draw near again. 

She crouches next to him, careful not to get too close. "Quentin, honey? They're not in your bag. Do you know where else they could be?" It's - unnatural, the way her voice sounds, so full of  _caring_. It's too much. 

"Sorry," he croaks, voice breaking. He focuses on relaxing his arms, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as he lifts his head in her direction. "you don't - you don't have to worry about me." 

"Quentin, of course I have to worry about you." His mind spins. After a few moments Margo sighs, sitting down next to him. "I don't know how to help you, but I'm here if you need me."

His mind really says Fuck Quentin Rights. Margo's insistent presence throws him for a loop.  _I'm a mess, I'm just a waste of her time, she can't want to be here right now._ But - it's comforting as well. _If she had wanted to leave, wouldn't she have already?_   _What's really wrong with him? Why can't he just fucking calm down?_   

He can't really gauge how much time has passed, but something tells him it hasn't been nearly as long as it feels when Margo finally stands up and turns to leave. Quentin's heart shatters as his thoughts rush in with  _Good, she finally left. Of course she would leave, too. Useless. Annoying-_

"Quentin? Are you alright?" Eliot rushed across the room, his long legs making swift work of the distance between them, his footsteps silent as ever even in his haste.

Eliot sunk to his level quickly, legs folding up neatly underneath him as he pressed against his side. "Hey, Q, stay with me." Long arms reached out cautiously and wrapped around him, so incredibly tender that it wracked another sob from Quentin. As much as he wanted to curl himself out existence, he found his body relaxing almost immediately as Eliot pulled his torso against his chest, his own tired arms falling to his sides. He felt his boundaries break, he was getting too tired to hold his walls, not when Eliot was holding him so carefully. 

"Hey-hey-hey, what's wrong, Q?" Eliot murmured as he brushed his hair away from his face, fingertips grazing over his cheekbones as he tucked it behind his ears. It felt nice. He forced himself to take a shuddering breath in, and felt some of his anxiety dissipate through Eliot as he breathed out. Eliot. El's arms around him, his chest against his back, steadying him. Eliot.

Quentin felt him shift as he looked up at Margo, but they seemed distant, far away. A few seconds in he had a horrible thought.  _She must be explaining the situation. Maybe she's rolling her eyes at how utterly overdramatic I'm being, how useless of a friend I am._ He held his breath for a moment, mind racing as he forced himself to listen in.

"I don't know, El. I couldn't find his anxiety meds for him, do you think you have anything hidden away that would help?" 

There was a long pause, and then he felt Eliot nod. "Yeah, I've got something." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet. "Go to my room, in the nightstand, the third drawer down." He heard Margo's heels clicking away before he could even finish the sentence, and Quentin breathed - 

Too. Quickly. Of course. Fuck.  _Fuck. Fuck-Fuck-fu-_  

"Quentin. Q. It's okay, it'll be okay, I'm here," Eliot felt the change and interrupted him, forcing his way into his thoughts, giving him a lifeline. Quentin grasped on as tightly as he could. 

The minutes dragged on like this, Quentin tense and self conscious and shaking in El's arms as he held him, quietly muttering reassurances that he tried so desperately to hear, but that his mind kept rejecting. It was so much more than he deserved. 

He heard quick footsteps, Margo descending the stairs quickly, and then she was beside them. She was slightly out of breath, and it took a moment for him to feel Eliot look up, to hear Margo shaking the bottle at him in annoyance. It was oddly silent.

He hears Eliot cracking a bottle of water, feels his gentle touch as he wraps fingers around his wrist, coaxing his hand open and carefully pressing a pill into his palm. "Hey, Q, can you take this?" 

Quentin nods numbly, looking at the pill in his hand. It looks like the ones he usually takes. He doesn't really care either way, whatever gets him to shut up. He reaches out for the bottle of water, tipping his head back as he pours some in his mouth and downs the pill. He tries to sets the bottle of water down, but El sees the movement and takes it from him.

"Good boy." Quentin warms at that.  _Stop overthinking._  He closes his eyes again, settling back against Eliot.  _Time to wait._

He almost didn't notice the way his breath had slowly started to come more rapidly, the way his while body gradually started to tense, but Eliot caught on almost immediately, pulling him back into his arms. "Breathe with me, Q." He did, or he  _tried_  to, he couldn't do it right and he so, so desperately wanted this to be over. Quentin brought his hands up to his face. He didn't want El to see him like this, he didn't want this to be hap-

" _C'mon Q_ , it's alright, I'm here." His words were soft, grounding. There was a pause. El didn't push his hands down from his face this time, for which he was grateful. "Hey, lay down for me." He loosened his arms from around Quentin and pushed him softly until he was laying with his head in Eliot's lap, his own fingertips tangling in his hair as he pressed his palms into his eyes, almost subconsciously willing the tears to stop streaming down his face.

"I'm sorry." It came out quiet, broken.  _I'm sorry for being so pathetic. For ruining the day. For everything._ He pulled his legs in slightly and - the cycle repeated. He was so tired. He had a splitting headache.

He shushed him. "It's okay, don't be. I'm here for you, I'm here." He tried to listen, tried to ground himself in Eliot.

He reached up and put his hands over Quentin's, gently pushing them down from his face. Quentin's face was hot with shame, eyes shut tightly, but he let him, he wanted to let him, wanted to be okay for El.  _"Breathe,_  darling." Quentin exhaled abruptly, dragging ragged, burning breaths into his sore lungs as El started to smooth out the mess he'd made of his hair, pushing it behind his ears. 

They did this for a while, Quentin trying to stop the chaos boiling underneath his skin, and Eliot trying to counteract his circular thoughts with soft words and even softer touches. Playing with his hair seemed to help, so he stuck with that.

Quentin's mind finally started to slow, between his own pleading and the drugs that forced him into a calmer state. Still slightly on edge, but starting to feel more and more content to take advantage of the situation and stay in Eliot's lap as long as possible. He wasn't ready to get up and be questioned, didn't want to  _talk_  about it right now. He shifted his hips lightly, getting comfortable, untwisting the bits of himself he hadn't noticed were still at awkward angles from the height of it. 

As soon as Eliot stopped petting down his hair he found himself tilting his head, a vain attempt to chase his touch. Wanting him  _back,_  only for a moment before his hand was gently settling on his jawline instead, fingers splaying over his cheek.His eyes flew open, finding hazel looking back for a moment before  _Eliot_  was leaning down, crowding over him, planting a kiss on his forehead.

 _Oh._  His mind supplied helpfully. He felt - warm. Cared for. After a long moment, Eliot pulled back, and was he blushing? "Thanks for," He stumbled, searching his eyes, trying to channel as much emotion as possible. "Thank you, El." 

"Mm. How's the party in there?" The hand still cupping his cheek lightly tapped his fingertips against his temple twice, for emphasis. 

"Better, I think. Definitely better. Kind of exhausted." 

"Good." Eliot smiled down at him, slowly pulling his hand back. "Do you think you can sit up? I think my legs fell asleep." 

"Uh, yeah," Quentin scrambled upright next to him, pulling his legs in so he was cross-legged. "Sorry about that." _About everything_.

"Don’t –" Quentin looked up at the taller man as he touched his shoulder, watched the soft smile tugging the corners of his mouth, drifting his gaze up to his creased brow and eyes full of intent. "We've been over this, Coldwater. I was being serious, don’t feel sorry. About any of this. I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now, not with you feeling like that." He quieted at the end, smoothing his hand down his arm, resting on his forearm. "I know how  _that_  feels. I want to be here for you, as much as you'll let me be. There’s no reason for you to apologize for that."

 He wanted to, for Eliot. "Okay." He looked down, studying Eliot's tie, the way his vest fit over his shoulders, not knowing what else to say. "Thank you." He repeated, quieter this time. 

 It was a relief when Eliot draped his arm over his shoulders, pulling him in. "Of course."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was mid-afternoon, about an hour after he'd woken up wrapped in a soft comforter that smelled like - did Eliot bring this down from his room? - that he remembered. He turned, slinging his arm over the back of the couch and resting his chin on his forearm.

Eliot had gotten up to make them something to drink, leaving Quentin in charge of finding some candles so that he could show him a spell called  _Harper's Fire-Shaping,_  but he had a minute. He formulated his words, watching as Eliot worked with his back turned to him, his movements graceful as he added a bit of this and that to his creations, the air of someone who knew exactly what the fuck they were doing.

"Hey, what was the pill that you gave me earlier, were you able to find my meds? It looked like one of mine." 

Quentin was still watching, so he barely caught the way Eliot stuttered his movements, matching it with the tension in his words as he spoke. "Oh, yeah. We - I did." Quentin froze as the thought pierced his mind, twisting in his gut.  "Here, actually." Eliot reached into his pocket and pulled the little bottle out. He tossed it to Quentin, who was surprised that he managed to catch it in time.

He noticed immediately that it had significantly less now, it had been practically full the last time he had it. He looked up right as Eliot was twisting around and crossing the room, a glass in either hand.

"Where, uh, did you find it?" Quentin cleared his throat, unsure how to put it without  _assuming_ anything. "It sounded like Margo was going to get something from your room."

Eliot stopped at the end of the couch and sighed, handing a glass to Quentin and quickly looking away again. He sank down into the couch, leaving some space between them.

"Yeah, they _were_ in my room. I," He was looking down, absentmindedly watching Quentin's hands where they were clasped around his cup. "I took them from you. Before we became friends." His eyes flitted up to Quentin's for just a moment before they darted away again, ashamed. "That first party after we met. Here, when Margo 'introduced' us."

“Oh.” Quentin paused, thinking. “You did seem,” He searched for the word. “Off. That night.”

 

He looked up at Quentin, who looked back, brows furrowed in a way he couldn’t quite read, “I’m so sorry, Q.” He meant it. He hoped he could see that he meant it.

“If I would have known I-” He cut himself off. He  _did_  know, didn’t he? He knew that Quentin wasn't like the other kids, the ones who told easy lies to get prescriptions, he had  _known_  about his anxiety. He was just too far gone to care. Jesus.

“Why?” Quentin cut through his thought train, soft and quiet.

Eliot looked up and met Quentin’s gaze.  _Oh_. “What?” He was expecting Quentin to get mad, to storm out, to call him names,  _anything_ , but he recognized the look in his eyes. Quentin was - he was  _concerned_  about _Eliot_  now. He almost wanted to laugh.

"Why'd you take my pills?" 

"I think you already know." it came out sounding more bitter than he'd intended, but he didn't want to get into it again. He knew he'd noticed, especially after some of their previous conversations. He didn't really try to hide how much he drank. It wasn't that big of a leap.

Quentin nodded, setting his glass down. "Hey, I’m not mad. It's not a big deal, I just - I care about you. I want you to feel like you can tell me things." He quieted. "I want to be there for you too, you know. You mean a lot to me, El."

Eliot couldn't help but smile. "You mean a lot to me too, Q."

Quentin chuckled at that, pausing for a long moment. Eliot watched as his expression changed, brow furrowing lightly as his eyes flicked down to his tie.

"What's up?" Eliot asked, wondering if he should be concerned, setting his glass down as well.

Quentin eyes met his again, a light smile spreading across his face, curious. 

“Oh. Something just,” He hummed. “clicked.” Quentin quiets for a moment, “I-I don’t think I was reading the room wrong earlier when-" Quentin cut himself off.

"Um." His eyes flicked between Eliot’s, and then he was carefully leaning over, gentle hands finding his collar, fingertips dipping down beneath the fabric, brushing against his collarbone, and he was tugging -  _Oh._  

Quentin’s lips were against his, soft and intent. It took him a moment to close his eyes, heart jumping in his chest. 

The moment was over too soon.

When Quentin pulled back, his cheeks were dusted with pink, his chocolate eyes wide and vulnerable, searching Eliot’s. 

Eliot startled a laugh, a wide smile overtaking his face, surely reaching his eyes. "Really?" He asked softly, _I didn't know I could have this, with you_. 

Quentin started to open his mouth, “I-”

Eliot reached out for him, cupping his hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in, leaning forward, capturing his lips in a kiss. Quentin's hands come up, resting against his chest for a moment before one of them slides up to tangle in Eliot's hair. His thumb dances over a soft patch of skin behind his ear as he feels him smile against his mouth.

Quentin makes a noise in the back of this throat as Eliot runs his tongue over his bottom lip, immediately parting his lips, the kiss deepening as Eliot rests his other hand on his hip, shifting their bodies closer.

He pulls back just enough to bite Eliot's lips, lightly dragging his teeth over his bottom lip as he dropped his hands, pulling back to catch his breath. Eliot drinks him in, the way his lips were pink and wet, his eyes wild, and then he's back, climbing into his lap, kissing him with an intensity that goes straight to his dick.

Eliot rests his hands on his lower back, sliding under the back of his shirt, the other dipping down to grab his ass. He pauses, enjoying the moment as Quentin makes out with him, hot and needy.

Absolutely _devouring_   the noise Quentin makes as he drags his hips flush against his body. He could feel Quentin through his jeans, hard and wanting against his stomach. 

Quentin made a noise of protest as Eliot forced himself to pull back. "Come upstairs with me?" Quentin nodded.

"Okay," He said cheekily. "Finish your drink. I didn't make it for nothing, you know."

Quentin rolled his eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully before climbing out of Eliot's lap. "Dick."

Quentin grabs their glasses, handing one to Eliot before grabbing his free hand, tugging him to his feet. " _C'mon,_ Waugh."

He grinned down at the shorter man, eyes bright as he downed the rest drink in two gulps, letting himself be led upstairs.

He had to stop them short. "No, Q,  _my_ room."

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is @transquentins, thanks for reading! :)


End file.
